


Heart of Dwarf

by Silberias



Series: Through the Eyes of Dwarves [1]
Category: The Hobbit 2012 - Fandom
Genre: Also Bilbo has the biggest Roll With It Fucker complex out of basically anyone, Also we've incorporated reincarnation, Catman and I also ship Gimli with LivesToSeeOldAge!Boromir, Defying gender boundaries because of Dwarves, F/M, Gen, Genderqueer Character, It is called Boroli, yuss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before she met Boromir, Gimli son of Gloin loved another one broken by the ravages of war and displaced peoples. Thorin told her that he wasn't for her, however, and left on his quest to retake Erebor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thorin dHokariak Thrain

**Author's Note:**

> For the last several months (or maybe a year?) my friend and I have been developing an AU of Lord of the Rings, mostly centered around his favorite character Boromir and my (then crazed) idea that Gimli is actually a Dwarf woman. And also I've got shipper, so I shipped them. 
> 
> Also you'll see bits of my own headcanon that Hobbits are the offspring of Elves and Dwarves from past Ages, which is why they are so Dwarfy yet also so Elfy.
> 
> TLDR: Dwarves basically said "Fuck you," to everyone else on Middle Earth in terms of political shit, why wouldn't they do the same with cultural and societal organizations of gender and gender politics?

“Who is she? Who is waiting for you to come home?” the hobbit was being annoying astute again, as they were finishing supper, picking up on things that Thorin had hoped he kept secret. The hobbit’s very presence made Thorin feel shame in a way he hadn’t thought himself weak enough for. Shame over how young Bilbo Baggins was, shame over allowing Bilbo to journey with them when he’d forbade another of roughly the same age. Shame over some of the last words he’d spoken back in the Blue Mountains, not looking up from his forge as he steadily worked on the second of a pair of axes—and guilt. She’d been left behind, and had made it clear she’d only taken the axes he made for her because she didn’t want to see good work go to waste. She’d been furious with him, then.

“Gimli, son of Gloin.” Bilbo cast a quick, sharp glance across the encampment at the auburn haired dwarf he’d also named. Thorin chewed on a piece of gristle thoughtfully, watching the hobbit struggle. Hobbits were truly the best of each of their parent races—Bilbo was as flabbergasted as only someone with a bit of Dwarf in them could be—

“Oh, well, ah—surely he’ll be—“ and as forgetfully tactful as an Elf. Thorin had answered the question as asked, there was no need to correct mid-tunnel.

“ _She’ll_ ,” Thorin said softly, a reluctant smile quirking his lips. His race was belligerently different from many others on Middle Earth, and it was always fun to poke a little at the assumptions of Men and Elves and now apparently Hobbits. Though he had Bilbo’s attention, and that was what he’d wanted.

“The word we use doesn’t translate, because outside of our realms the concept rarely exists and only in desperation. _dHokariak_ ,” he said the word clearly and slowly, watching as Bilbo formed the sounds in his mouth and stuttered the word out a few times before he got it right. The hobbit was a scholar, and was pleased with himself when he finally managed it.

“dHokariak…what does it mean?”

Thorin stood, putting aside the last of his food and gesturing for Bilbo to follow him. The burglar scrambled up, his footsteps racing just a tiny bit to keep up with Thorin but not by much. He headed out towards the river—if he was going to be playing at teacher, he wanted to at least occupy his hands with something useful like sharpening his axes. Besides, the river would give this conversation a little privacy—he did not need to share all the tales of his life with his comrades, some were his to treasure in his own way.

He sat down on a dry rock at the river’s edge and plucked the fastenings and bindings of his boots off, intending to stick his feet in the water—the river was nearly warm this late in the summer, and that was a boon. Thorin also knew that Bilbo had never laid eyes on a Dwarven foot and that the hobbit might notice some interesting parallels. He couldn’t ever allow himself much fun, but this he could manage.

“Thorin dHokariak Thrain dHokariak Thror,” he started, “means in the common tongue Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror. To _dwarves_ ,” he cast a meaningful glance at Bilbo as he stuck his feet deeply into the watery mud and wriggled his hairy toes, “it means more along the lines of Thorin blood-heir of Thrain blood-heir of Thror.” He pulled out his whetstone and took out his favorite axe, a small one made for dispatching goblins—it was some of Gimli’s finest work—and started in on it.

“My people have never bothered overmuch with adopting or imitating the cultures of others—our women are not confined away to rot and decay, nor are they deprived of means and encouragement.”

“They inherit,” Bilbo said softly, his eyes widening just the slightest bit.

“And without any fuss, Master Baggins.”

He could see his companion catching on faster and faster—it was the Dwarf in his blood, Thorin knew it in his bones—and putting the rest of the story together. Because, last _Thorin_ had heard, only the Rohirrim allowed their women to openly stand as heirs to their fathers and that was in the absence of a male child. With such understated favoritism, of course the race of Dwarves wouldn’t advertise which son of so-and-so lived as a _female_. Thorin decided to leave for another time the conversation where he illuminated that Balin, who had so far always been affectionate and fatherly to Bilbo, would have been forced to live as a woman had he been born among Men—the hobbit’s mind was racing enough as it was.

“Will you go back to her? Is she waiting for you?”

“I asked her not to. As a people who spend our lives beneath the mountains, we see the stars so infrequently that we do not cross them,” he smoothed his thumb along the now viciously sharp blade of the axe she’d made for him. It _wasn’t_ too late for her to love another, he told himself, and that comforted Thorin. If he did not return, he knew at least that for his part he had loved her and that she would not live all the centuries of her life alone, mourning him.

Her relentless wit and sturdy shoulders were healing and comforting, and if they were not to be Thorin’s then he hoped they would be given to another like him. If the stars made it so that _he_ did not belong to her, then hopefully the fates would give her someone else who should have broken beneath responsibility, bitterness, and memory long ago but kept on.

“So…if we all get through this alright, that’ll mean the stars will be—wait.” Bilbo had once again gotten himself confused by trying to overthink it. Thorin chucked, returning the small axe Gimli had given him—blushing so furiously her cheeks and nose had matched her bright red beard—to his belt.

“Lovers separated by war or quests or revenge or feuds between families are well spoken of, if only in hushed tones, in the villages and cities of Men and Elves. They revel in such tales, and when they find themselves _participants_ of such a tale they are only elated. Star-crossed lovers—their ilk is neither seen nor celebrated among my people. If I return to Gimli then the stars were always aligned in our favor,” he said as he stood up, sloshing his feet around to clean the mud off of them, “and if I do not then they never were and we were both spared great heartbreak,” he said as he dried his feet and put his boots on once again.

As he stood to his full height—amused even after all these weeks of travel that around a hobbit he was a head-taller for once rather than two feet shorter—he added:

“We prefer to sing rather than wail, and to act decisively rather than sit in despair. When I think of her, I imagine her singing as she hews new streets and homes for our kin. Gimli can mine out a mile of road—twelve feet high, twenty feet wide—in a month which is,” he shook his head at her maddening skills with a pickaxe, “fast. Very fast. I should like that when she thinks of me, she thinks of me as I’ve been.” Bilbo seemed to think on this for a moment and then nodded with a note of finality.

“I’d wager that she does, Thorin. You dwarves don’t seem to romanticize anything all that much. Quite like hobbits in that respect,” he said, smirking just a touch.

 


	2. Gimli dHokariak Gloin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwarves believe in finding a One. One for all the centuries of their lives, so they try to choose that person wisely. Not many get a second chance, and gambling on Thorin Oakenshield was taking a greater risk than courting goldmadness.

She did worry—at lot—that she was making her choice too early. There was a lot of life to be lived between now and the shades of death, for her at least, and what if she was simply getting caught up in something she wasn’t old enough for? Gimli mostly pounded those thoughts out of her head by working on her skills with the forge. Like all Dwarves she was accomplished with making the big things—swords long and light enough for a Ranger of the Dunedain to wield with ease, sabers strong and pliant enough for a rider of Rohan to draw at full gallop, Gondorian maces such as hadn’t been seen or made by the world of Men since the time of Isildur, and of course axes strong enough to withstand the blows dealt with them by the hands of Dwarven warriors.

Lately Gimli had had her mind on the small things. She was experimenting on making rings, daggers thimbles, slingshots, keys—as well as locks to go with them—and hand axes. Thorin, shortly before he’d left, had given her a pair of them. He had waited until her father had left their family forge for the night and slipped in. He’d stood close to her, close enough to feel his breath ruffling the hairs of her beard—he took her hand and wrapped it around the two matching weapons.

“Gimli—“ he stopped, and she almost hoped that he was going to reconsider his decision from days ago, “—you can’t come with us. I won’t allow you to—you must stay here and watch over all of us in my absence. I must take Kili because of her skill with a bow, and there is no force below or above the mountains which could separate Fili from his sister,” she tried to jerk her hand away from his then, wanting to throw his beautiful axes to the stone floor, but his grip was as unyielding as iron, “and should they fall, _my_ sister will not be able to stand as leader to our people nor my family while I am gone. You must therefore do this, not for your king but for me, Thorin.” He released her hand then, letting both arms fall to his sides as he took a step back.

“When I do return, when Erebor is once again ours, I may not be the same—I may need you to remain at this post, because you will give me strength once my current task is completed. Do not wait for that day, though, Gimli, live your life as it comes to you.”

As much as he had tried to deflect her advances, to deny his own feelings and discredit hers, Gimli had known then. Even through her fury that he was leaving her behind, he had as good as agreed to wed her when he returned.

The axe she’d made for him months ago had glinted from his belt as he left her smithy that night, recently sharpened after a small raid on goblins trying to take one of the southern tunnels by force. It was good to see he was taking care of it, if only because he took such poor care of himself. She’d been fighting right beside him then, fighting for the home he and those from Erebor had begun making. A home she’d grown up in, but not where her heart resided. A dwarf’s heart, the saying among Men went, was where their favorite axe was hung—it wasn’t exactly wrong, either. Out of all the weapons she had ever made, her favorite had been the one given to Thorin Oakenshield because she wanted to keep him safe—even when she couldn’t stand beside him, her axe was the one which resided at his hip.

The others that day had been exultant when the last goblin was dead—clocked in the head, right between the eyes, by someone wielding a slingshot. Arrows were too dangerous, for the most part, to use in the tunnels beneath the mountains, wood too precious, and stones plentiful. For those reasons only the most accomplished slingshotters were allowed to train with a bow. The trick was being able to aim in the gloom where most battles underground were fought. That day though, in the semi-darkness of the blood-washed tunnel, Thorin had just looked weary and sad. Gimli knew that she loved him, then, because he looked how she felt.

Here in the Blue Mountains they were fighting for a space for their entire race—there were the Iron Hills, yes, but the majority of Dwarves wished to reside here in these new halls—and they were fighting against those they were displacing. For as long as she could remember, Gimli had felt the sting of guilt over this. The goblins that day had probably been made homeless because some other tribe—displaced by Dwarves—had taken their home. Yes, goblins were filthy creatures covered in boils and peeling skin and they used _wood_ of all things to build their homes in the cavities beneath mountains but they spoke a language which was at root the same as the tongue of Dwarves. Goblins were their cousins of a sort, sometimes enemies but sometimes friends.

If only for this, she understood Thorin’s overwhelming desire to send them all home. Goblin empires would once again be dealt with on a case by case basis, their kings treated as such by the kings and lords of the Dwarves. The wars with the dozens of small goblin tribes in _just_ the Blue Mountains would end, because treaties could be drawn up with the larger kingdoms—kingdoms who would then enforce their own laws on their own peoples. Those who lived under the mountains lived by different codes than those above, though, and one must _have a mountain_ to be treated as king of one.

Everyone knew that the Dwarves had no such mountain, that try as they might they could not clear even a single mountain in the range of the Blue Mountains—from peak to root—of all the goblins living in it. They had no home, despite having great halls, vaulted streets, and places to rest their hammers and heads.

Thorin was leaving on his quest to take back Erebor, so that they would.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Yet even now, you are King Under the Mountain, Thorin Oakenshie--" 
> 
> The ether of all of time and space stretched outwards, a tiny winding path leading away from the instance of death towards another opening into mortality. Away from mountains, which had until then been home, away from the pride of jewels hewn from the living rock, away from the sighs of air bellows, and into a place still of stone but of cold, loveless halls. If memory could be made in this place, it would have seemed a moment between the coldness of eyes closing in death and the coldness of moisture on infant's skin. In reality it was more like thirty years.
> 
> "He will be named Boromir, after the great Steward. He shall too be a great Steward. You've given Gondor a beautiful son, Finduilas."
> 
> However Destiny and bonds between Two are not diverted by death. Gimli would yet have the chance for her One, should she cross his path.


End file.
